


Making the Season Bright (and Slightly Eldritch)

by m4x_87



Category: Christian Bible
Genre: Agender Character, Autistic Character, Fluff, Immuno-deficient character, Marshmallow Fluff, Other, Prompt Fic, Satan Makes Christmas, Satan loves humans, Satan loves kids the most, Satan punishes the wicked (that's his job), Trans Character, Typos as plot device, kids don't want what adults think they want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 01:07:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m4x_87/pseuds/m4x_87
Summary: Over on Tumblr, I came up with a small 2000 or so word drabble about what it would be like for Satan to answer a typo-summons at a Mall, and have kids tell him what they want for Christmas. It's done well, but I've been meaning to expand on it for a while, so Now I Have Done That.





	Making the Season Bright (and Slightly Eldritch)

“Patrice!”

Golden yellow eyes lifted from the never-ending paperwork of a newly overhauled portion of The Pit, observing an excitedly approaching demon. Clarence was speed-walking towards Satan’s Administrative Assistant, occasionally skipping as his enthusiasm brimmed. Patrice waited with an expression of fond bemusement. Clarence could have teleported. That was a thing he could do. He always forgot to when he was excited about something.

“Patrice. I got something,” he said as he finally reached the desk, bouncing on his clawed toes. He was so visibly excited he was practically vibrating.

Like a chihuahua.

With scales.

And Horns.

“I’m a little busy for a build-up, Clarence. What is it?” Patrice asked. Clarence grinned with sharp teeth and brought his hands from behind his back, holding out a brightly colored flier with both hands.

The first thing that Patrice registered was the color scheme – very festive white cardstock with the green and red glitter that permeated the season. There was a momentary swell of pity that Patrice squashed ruthlessly. Everyone across The Pit knew about Clarence’s dyslexia. They also knew that his offerings were Not To Be Ignored.

Not after last time.

Patrice took a closer look.

‘It’s that time of year!’ the saccharine pamphlet informed the world. ‘Parents, bring your kids! Children, young and old, come to Satan’s Holiday Corner! Come tell Satan your Christmas Wishes and make the Season Bright!’

Patrice blinked.

Satan’s Holiday Corner.

Come tell Satan your Christmas Wishes.

Sweet Eden’s _Apples_.

Patrice looked up at Clarence, who beamed back, and then took the flier from him, turning golden eyes towards The Door.

“Thank you, Clarence,” Patrice said distractedly.

“You’re welcome!” he replied, bouncing a little before vanishing into the ether.

The Door hadn’t opened in some time – not since Patrice had left the room beyond it to resume the duties of Satan’s Administrative Assistant after resting.

Satan had been in a funk since the last Deal he’d made.

He wasn’t generally against deals, but this one...it’d been eating at him. Patrice wasn’t nearly as worried as he was. Humans were resilient. They had weathered dictators and hatred of this ilk before, they would weather this one (and likely more after). The ones that died as a result of the decrees of a bigoted troll would go to Heaven, and the perpetrators of the Deal would come to them, and they would suffer.

Forever.

And _ever._

Patrice’s only worry was that the upcoming revolution was going to be their busy season, which meant paperwork – especially with the renovation of Sector Four’s Screaming Halls, and the expansion of Sector Nine to include separate pits for the Narcissists to be alone in for eternity.

But the boss…

He wasn’t supposed to – all the literature said he didn’t – but he _liked_ humans.

He worried about them. It wasn’t healthy.

So, the Deal weighed on him in ways that it absolutely shouldn’t have. But _this_ …

Patrice looked down at the hilarious typo and snorted, rising from a wheeled chair composed of bone and locally sourced leather.

Time to lift the boss’s spirits.

Patrice went to The Door. It too was carved from bones, and depicted a fresco of eternal terror and the torment of the damned. Patrice opened it without reservation and slipped inside before closing it again. Turning to survey the room, they sighed, shaking their head at the sight of Lucifer Morningstar, First Angel of Heaven, Lord and Supreme Ruler of Hell, slouched in a decidedly unmajestic fashion, half-in, half-out of an armchair, feet propped on an ottoman, arms hanging languidly over the sides of the chair. Patrice huffed, golden eyes rolling.

“You haven’t moved in three weeks,” Patrice reported. A grunt issued forth from the armchair, which sullenly faced a roaring fire that gave off no heat. His secretary sighed, walking over to the chair and batting his arm off of it before perching on the arm of the chair and holding up the flier. “You have a summons.”

“No more Deals,” Satan grumbled, folding his arms. Patrice looked down at the overlarge, pink-plaid, fuzzy bathrobe that Satan had bundled himself in, arms pulled down to cover his hands, hood pulled up to shadow his face. The lower portion of his face was still visible, twisted into a frown of disgust and regret. Patrice sighed, shifting to sit more fully in Satan’s lap. He grunted, but his arms came up to pull them closer, and he shifted his head forward so that they could slip an arm around his shoulders. Patrice held the flier so that he could read it.

“I think you’ll want to look at this one.”

The sigh that issued forth was tired and annoyed, but one hand came up with reluctant expectation. Patrice handed him the flier and smiled, petting the shoulder of his fluffy bathrobe and waiting.

There was silence. The smile on Patrice’s face grew. The flier was pulled closer, and then held farther away.

Satan flipped it over to look at the back, and then flipped it forward again to re-read the front.

“This is a typo,” he said. Patrice hummed.

“Yes. Delightful, isn’t it? Clarence brought it in.”

“’Satan’s Holiday Corner’,” he mused. Patrice chuckled, fussing with the lapel of Satan’s robe.

“Can you even imagine? You – King of the Damned – sitting in a mall somewhere, asking a thousand tubby little human spawn what they want for their capitalist holiday?” They hunched up their shoulders and affected a mild shudder, still smiling, though Satan remained silent. As the moment stretched, Patrice’s smile became strained, and the hope that this situational irony would distract the Lord of Hell from his depression slipped further and further away.

“What day is it?” He asked suddenly, and Patrice blinked.

“Thursday, I think, why?”

“The date, Patrice.”

“Oh. Um…” Patrice turned golden eyes towards the upper world and then looked back at Satan. “December 3rd.”

Satan sat in silence for thirty seconds more before sitting up. Patrice blinked at the sudden movement, and then blinked again when Satan hooked his arms under their legs and stood. The hood fell back from his beautiful face, revealing a grin that spelled trouble. Patrice’s stomach did something unpleasant.

“I believe I need to visit the Tailor,” he said. Patrice frowned in confusion as Satan set them on their feet with a sound kiss. Patrice stared, mildly confused and cautiously elated at the sudden rise in The Dark Lord’s spirits, and then looked at the way he was rereading the flier. Their mouth fell open.

“You can’t be serious,” Patrice said, shifting their weight onto one leg and shaking their head. Satan looked at his unholy secretary with an expression of regal solemnity.

“I have been summoned,” he intoned gravely, and Patrice gaped.

“It’s a _typo_!”

Satan giggled, shrugging off his robe and heading for The Door. Patrice sighed.

Ugh, this was gonna go badly.

**

“How can I help you, mister…” The woman behind the counter, forty-seven with four children and a husband who didn’t appreciate her nearly as much as she deserved, drank in the sight of him and yearned for a life she could never have lived. He smiled at her and extended his hand.

“Morningstar,” he told her, kissing her hand when she surrendered it and then smiling at her again when she gave a flustered twitter of a laugh. He was wearing a deep, crimson red suit with a crisp white shirt. His tie had a single pitchfork on it. “And you are?”

“Oh, I’m Lauren,” she told him with a maidenly blush.

“Lauren. I believe your establishment is soon beginning its Holiday Corner tradition,” he prompted, and she nodded.

“Oh, of course. The kids just love it,” she said, nodding. He hummed, holding up the flier.

“Yes, I’m sure they do. I’ve come to fill the open position of Satan,” he told her. She blinked, taken aback, mouth flying open as she blinked again. She looked at the flier, eyes flitting over the words before turning back to his, wide with horror. Her face was a mottled red.

“Oh, my,” she breathed. “That is…I—”

“A novel approach to the season, I must say. I’m very intrigued, and looking forward to experiencing the spirit of the holiday,” he told her, with a look of earnest anticipation that caused her to further trip over her tongue.

“Oh, well, I...”

“I suppose there’s a contract I need to sign?” he offered. “I won’t need to borrow a suit, if that is your concern. I have my own,” he added.

“Oh no, of course,” her cheek twitched a little. “I just...”

He stared at her, his expression nothing more or less than that of an interested potential hire.

“Only, I...”

He continued to stare politely.

“I think there’s a union…?” she managed, before clearing her throat. “Let me just get my manager,” she told him, before fleeing to the security of the offices behind her.

He smirked.

**

It took so little effort to convince the manager – a nervous little man with a clipboard clutched to his chest, named Robert – that the Santa they had already hired would no longer be available (he had so easily traded his position for an all expenses paid trip to Aruba for him and his family. So little effort for so much potential reward). From there the barest nudge towards convenience, no matter how unusual, and here he was, pen in hand, a contract before him.

The contract was boring and uninventive – but then, this was corporate America, not Hell, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise. He arched a single eyebrow at the stipulation about how long was appropriate for having a child seated on Santa’s lap. He crossed out both the stipulation and the word ‘Santa’. He had made eight-hundred and two corrections of the word, changing each and every one he’d come across to ‘Satan’ with a quill that never needed to be dipped.

The manager stood nearby, with Lauren just behind him, both of them watching this strange man make casual alterations to the standard contract of the Mall ~~Santa~~. The manager – Bob – was sweating large fat beads of sweat that he occasionally mopped with a low-quality handkerchief, swallowing and nervously licking his lips and trying and failing to summon the nerve to question ‘Mr. Morningstar’.

The seconds ticked by loudly, the silence interrupted only by the scritching of the pen, which was somehow worse than the silence.

Finally, Mr. Morningstar straightened, read over his work, and smiled, turning to face Bob, who tried not to soil himself. He found that he had much preferred when Mr. Morningstar was pretending he didn’t exist.

“I believe everything is now in order,” Mr. Morningstar told him, and he screwed up his authority as a ten-year manager.

“It...is against company policy to make alterations to employee contracts,” he managed, mopping his forehead as he spoke. Mr. Morningstar’s smile was indulgent and made Bob want to cry and beg forgiveness.

“Alterations?” he asked, holding the contract out to Bob, who clutched his clipboard a little tighter, wheezing as he stared at the innocuous paper in the other man’s hands.

There were no visible pen marks on the page.

It was as if it were fresh from the printer and had not had a mysterious stranger with a casually predatory air red-penning it for the last forty-five minutes.

He took it.

The only ink visible was at the bottom of the page, where Mr. Morningstar had signed it, loopy and fantastic, like a movie star. His hands shook as he held it. He looked back at Mr. Morningstar, who was holding out the quill.

“I believe it also requires your signature,” he prompted with a smile that was so, so sharp for a man with such perfect, flat teeth.

**

Satan observed his temporary kingdom.

It was _very_ cheerful.

The thought of him on the throne of such an implicitly innocent and joyous stage brought forth a huff of amusement. It reminded him of that Claymation allegory of cultural appropriation, except that the inhabitants of ‘Halloweentown’ existed merely as the representation of human beings’ desire to be scared – to feel alive – whereas he was supposed to be (according to all available literature except for some very compelling fiction on the internet that he really ought to investigate the source of) pure, unadulterated evil.

Also, he’d been invited (unintentionally or not), instead of stumbling into something he’d never known existed.

He hummed at the thought and tilted his head as he once more observed his temporary domain.

He was going to have to alter this setting.

Not so much that it wouldn’t be ‘Christmas-y’, of course, but...

Well, if this was going to be his domain for three weeks, then he definitely wanted to feel just a little bit more at home.

He snapped his fingers.

The simple throne with worn red cotton cushions and the wooden frame painted gold became an actual throne. The cushions were velvet. The gold frame was real gold. It was regal where the other had been whimsical, and Satan sighed with a smile, walking over and settling himself upon it. He gave another sigh of pure pleasure as he sank into the soft, luxurious cushions.

He cast his eyes around the rest of the area and smiled.

**

“Oh, my!”

“Wow, look at that!”

“Suzie, look at Santa, isn’t that neat?”

“Mommy, I wanna pet the reindeer!”

Bob was going to eat his clipboard.

He was going to get _fired_ and then he was going to _eat_ his _clipboard_.

~~Santa’s~~ corner had been _redecorated_.

_Without authorization_.

Normally, there was the big tree with the beach ball sized glass ornaments, and the lights, and then at the base of that, between four crossed candy-canes, was Santa’s throne. To the right of the throne was the start of the line, with a simple corded rope and a little red carpet to keep the kids lined up. To the right was a little camera set up in case the kiddies wanted a picture with Santa (or the parents wanted pictures of their kids with Santa), and then a little exit, designated with a much shorter section of path bordered by the corded rope. Between those two was a little scene set up on some fake snow, with plastic reindeer, and an elf.

Nothing fancy.

The same set up they’d had for the last two years.

_This_ year, though... _This_ year was _different_ , and Bob _hated it._

The tree was still there, but the decorations were all red.

Every _single_ one.

And there was a _throne_ – an honest to god, royal throne. The carpet, old, worn, and with stains that were best left unidentified, was new, and of a richer quality than the head office would have been willing to spring for. The rope path was similarly new, and red, and _velvet_ , as though this were a night club for celebrities and not a strip club mall.

The camera was gone. _Where was the camera?_ No one could tell him where the camera had gone, which was giving him some kind of an ulcer.

In its place was a canvas on an easel and a sign advertising _portraits_.

When had they hired a portraitist? How were they going to manage portraits?!

And don’t even get him started on the _live reindeer?!?!_ There were so many health code violations waiting to happen right here in his mall.

Bob mopped his forehead and eyed the man who was sitting casually on the throne of Christmas Corner (Holiday Corner now, thanks to some tightly wound soccer moms). He was smiling at Bob as though he could read Bob’s mind.

Bob swallowed hard and mopped his forehead again as the line began to fill.

Whatever. He wasn’t involved, and he _wasn’t_ responsible.

As far as he was concerned, the parents could submit any complaints directly to ~~Santa~~. ~~~~

**

Satan observed the amassed crowd of potential Deals with an air of patient expectation.

The parents observed him with the glassy-eyed stare of those under the influence of a powerful glamor. They saw a jolly fat man with a snowy white beard and rosy cheeks.

The children eyed him with the honest appraisal of those immune to such things.

He saw them, and they saw him.

Which was why the line was not moving, he supposed. The children were hesitant – this ‘man’ they saw before them was not Santa. Confusion and distrust kept them at bay. Curiosity and their parents’ enthusiasm kept them in the line.

He wasn’t concerned. One of them would approach him when they grew tired of inaction. They were already fidgeting. He had only to wait.

**

She was a tubby little child, holding on to her baby fat with both hands as she headed into her tenth year of living precociously. Her hair was lovingly pulled back into afro-puffs, held that way with banana ties, and her big brown eyes were set angrily on his as she allowed her parents to set her on his knee before walking away to wait.

“Hello, child,” Satan greeted amiably. She looked him over, narrowing her eyes. He huffed, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smirk. “Have you been good this year?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“It usually does.”

They regarded each other for a moment. His smirk grew incrementally. “What would you like Satan to bring you this year?” he asked after the moment had passed. Immediately her eyes hardened into a sullen glare.

“I want a pony,” she said with a small, adorable sneer. Satan steepled his fingers in front of his face as his smirk threatened to grow into a smile.

“Do you,” he replied, knowing she didn’t, truly. And by the clicking of her tongue and her defiant expression, she knew he knew she didn’t (She did a little bit. Horses were cool. They could kick a human _to death_.)

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes as she drew out the vowel. “But you’re just a dude in a suit. You can’t actually give me what I want,” she told him. He arched an eyebrow. The smile was there. His fingers barely hid it.

“Child,” he said, and her spine straightened a little at the subtle edge under his amusement. “I have destroyed cities and raised mountains. I have peopled and felled more armies than you can imagine having _existed_. I have translocated an entire island to another _planet_ ,” he informed her.

She arched her eyebrows, mouth agape slightly as she processed his assertion. The smile became a grin.

“Try me.”

She stared at him, stewing in her wavering uncertainty.

He stared back with the patience of eons.

She bit her lip.

“There’s a bully,” she told him, fingers tangling in her lap in a subconscious effort to reassure herself. “At my school. He’s stupid, and he’s mean – not just to me. I want...” she hesitated, blushing as her eyes finally dropped away from his. He said nothing, only watching as she took a breath and looked back at him, still blushing, but defiant. Her hands were clasped so tightly, the color was starting to drain from them. “I want him to _go away_ ,” she said, setting her little chin forward.

“I see,” he replied. The smile had slipped a little, but he regarded her carefully and then nodded. “And I believe the standard contract for this exchange is that you will continue to be a ‘good’ girl and obey the wishes of your most favored parent?” he asked.

The girl – who’d begun to entertain the possibility that he might be on the level – blinked, and then huffed, hope shuttered behind self-recrimination and an uncomfortable awareness of the unfairness of the world.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she muttered. He hummed, holding out one hand to her. Her hand reached out without instruction and shook it. His hand was warm and dry and still she shivered.

“Katrina Beyonce Emerson,” he intoned, drawing her wide brown eyes back to his. “We have an accord,” he told her.

She stared at him. He gently picked her up off his knee and set her on her feet before giving her a gentle push towards her parents, who were waiting by the exit. She looked back at him over her shoulder as her parents pulled her away.

**

Patrice eyed the plans for the upcoming renovation of the Flame Pits. Lava was all well and good for The Aesthetic, but it was less precise than some of the demons thought was necessary – not just for torture. There was lava everywhere. It made getting around tricky sometimes for souls who were being transported to and from their assigned tortures. It was annoying when they burst into flame _before_ the torture had officially begun.

It screwed up the paperwork.

Xlt’ltlx was requesting a new chamber with multiple instruments that could produce different intensities of heat, and Patrice was inclined to agree, but it was definitely something that was going to have to be run by the Boss.

The rustle of paper brought golden yellow eyes to the sudden appearance of a rolled-up scroll, bound with a black ribbon bearing Satan’s seal. Patrice took a breath, staring at it.

That was a _Deal._

“What—”

The sourceless sound of pen on paper filled the air, and Patrice paled as another scroll warped into being beside the first.

“Oh no,” they blurted, standing and looking around. They hesitated for a moment, unsure of what exactly they needed to do, only knowing that something _had_ to be done to contain this—

More frantic ethereal scratching of pen on paper and another scroll.

“Oh _no!_ ”

**

“My, my,” Satan said dryly, observing a small boy who hunched in on himself as he sat on ~~Santa~~ ’s lap, eyes downcast, face turned slightly to draw attention away from the bruise on his face. “What have we here?” he asked, raising his eyes to the father, who cleared his throat, hands in his pockets.

“Kids these days,” the father said, sniffing and rubbing his nose. “Always getting into fights over stupid stuff,” he said dismissively. Satan made a vague noise in the back of his throat and then flashed the father a tight smile before gesturing imperiously to the end of the corded exit, where parents were to wait. The smile grew tighter and less congenial as seconds ticked by and the father cleared his throat again before taking the ten steps out of earshot.

Satan watched him go and then softened his features as he turned his attention back to the child.

“I imagine your father expects you to ask for a toy this holiday season,” he began, setting his hand on the boy’s back and extending some of his power. The bruises would be gone by the end of the day. The deeper injuries would be gone by the following morning.

The boy shrugged.

“You don’t want a toy, though, do you?” Satan asked, and the boy lifted his head, cautiously darting his eyes towards Satan’s face before shaking his head. Satan mirrored the headshake. “No, I imagine not,” he said. “If you are concerned that he will hear your true request, you needn’t be. He sees only a simple Santa discussing the details of a basketball hoop with his son,” Satan told him.

The boy looked at his father, who looked approving and glassy-eyed, and then shrugged one shoulder (he couldn’t run fast enough to play basketball anyway. He always got picked last for sports. He didn’t mind, though. He preferred to read anyway).

“He gets mad,” the boy said, before sucking in a breath and sighing. He looked at his father again, forcing a smile that his father didn’t see. “He gets madder when he drinks, and he drinks almost every night. Sometimes he has a beer with breakfast,” the boy went on. Satan said nothing, but his hand was now smoothing over the boy’s back, a comforting gesture. “I just want him not to be so mad at me,” the boy said, face screwing up with tears. Satan made a soothing noise and let the boy scrub the tears from his eyes before using the barest hint of his power to calm the child’s frazzled nerves.

“Under ordinary circumstances, the terms of this deal would be your Christmas Wish in exchange for continued ‘goodness’ and obedience to your favored parent, but I think in this case, only one of these two stipulations is necessary,” Satan said, casting a flat look at the glamour-stricken man, who nodded in acknowledgment of whatever he was seeing with a hint of impatience. “Hunter Landon, we have an accord,” Satan said, holding out his hand. Hunter shook it, and then hurried over to his father once Satan had sent him on his way.

**

Patrice glared at the cascade of Deals that were taking over the desk. There were over a hundred. The demonic assistant sat there, massaging their forehead with one hand as Deal after Deal rolled into being. The scrolls were so many that they were falling off the sides of the desk and beginning to cluster around the desk itself.

A demon approached the desk, but Patrice had only to turn red-rimmed, murderous golden eyes in the demon’s direction as another scroll appeared and prompted a paper avalanche on the desk before it decided that whatever it had to say could wait. Patrice turned back to watching more and more scrolls appear, lips tightening into a line of displeasure.

**

Satan watched the parents disperse with their children, some with vouchers to return for portraits they were uncertain about the completion of, given that no reference pictures were taken. Satan smiled, and then let himself yawn.

So many Deals in such a short time. He hadn’t been this productive since the—well…

Ever.

He hummed and then stood, making his way out of Holiday Corner and over to where Bob was hovering.

And sweating.

“Productive day,” he commented, and Bob cleared his throat. Satan waited to see if he would screw up the nerve to say whatever it was he’d been hovering around to say, and then nodded sharply with a clap of his hands when nothing was forthcoming. Bob flinched. Satan smiled. “See you tomorrow, Robert,” he said, before strolling away.

He turned a corner and transported himself home.

Patrice was standing there, looking radiant, and incandescent, and utterly, completely, totally furious with him.

He smiled.

“Patrice,” he began, and his assistant drew in a hissing breath like the spitting of a cat.

“Do _not_ ‘Patrice’ me, buster,” They spat, and his smile grew. “ _Do_ you have _any_ idea how many _Deals_ you have made today?” They demanded.

“Five hundred and seventy-six,” He replied. Patrice’s eyes grew wild and murderous, and Satan felt a pleasant shiver in his spine.

“So, you’re doing this to me on _purpose!_ ” They accused. Satan stepped forward, his hands open and placating and delighting in the _fury_ that this inspired.

“Apple-dumpling, you are overreacting,” he said, eyeing the bared teeth that earned him. “They came to your desk so that you could catalog – I would never demand you handle so many deals all on your own,” he crooned, sliding his hand around the trim waist of his assistant and taking a clenched hand in his other before spinning the furious secretary into a slow waltz.

“You’re infuriating,” Patrice told him. He beamed. Patrice unleashed a noise of disgust and rolled golden eyes towards the surface. “You think you’re buttering me up – I’m still angry,” they told him, even as their hand relaxed in his, and their other arm came up to his shoulder, and they danced.

“Of course, dear,” he replied. Patrice snorted and then sighed.

“How _exactly_ do you intend to manage _five hundred and seventy-six_ Deals?”

“I intend to use every resource at my disposal. We’ll have to neglect our guests for a short while. They don’t deserve it, but we’ll need hooves on the ground and wings in the air,” Satan replied, twirling Patrice before ending the dance. “Children are fascinating, They don’t want the things adults think they want,” he said. Patrice stared at him. He chuckled. “I can’t _wait_ to see what they’ll want tomorrow,” he added. A strangled gurgle choked itself out of Patrice’s throat.

“Tomorrow?”

“When I go back.”

“Go **_back!?_** ”

“Of course,” Satan said, his grin growing with his anticipation. Hell’s Unholy _Pit_ but he loved it when Patrice got angry with him. “I’m scheduled every day between now and Christmas Eve,” he said.

Patrice stared.

Patrice’s eye twitched.

Patrice opened closed a mouth contorted with rage and confusion and accusation.

Satan waited with glee and mild arousal.

“Are you having a mid-existence crisis right now?” Patrice demanded. Satan gave a bark of surprised laughter before settling into a chuckle. He shrugged.

“Maybe.”

“So, what. This is your equivalent of fast cars and loose women a fraction of your age?”

“I suppose,” Satan replied. Patrice took a deep breath and then let out the longest, most suffering-filled sigh that Satan had heard since he suggested bureaucracy.

“Fine,” They said, after taking a moment. Satan watched them gather themselves and bounced on the balls of his feet. “ _Fine_. Satan is going to make Christmas. _Why not?_ ”

Satan grinned. Patrice straightened their tie, pushed back their hair, and took another breath.

“I’ll go assemble the troops.”

**

“We have a problem.”

“Yes, many,” Michael replied to the angel that stood before his metaphysical desk. It was one of the spies, and Michael took a fraction of a second to summon the other’s name to be a properly respectful sibling. Zophiel. “To which of our many problems are you referring?”

“Lucifer is on Earth,” Zophiel reported, and Michael sighed.

“Lucifer has been on Earth one hundred and seventeen times _this year_ ,” he said, signing a few important documents and shuffling them to his out box.

“He is making _Deals_ with children who have no Sin,” Zophiel insisted.

Michael paused, his hand hovering over the next soul appraisal. He looked up at his brother for the first time and registered the absolute concern on the other angel’s face. He was holding a clipboard with a thick sheaf of papers. Michael held out his hand, and the angel gratefully deposited the clipboard into it. Michael began reading what turned out to be a list of children’s names and the Deals they had made with The First Fallen. So many…

“Where is he making so many deals?” Michael asked.

“At a mall in Washington State,” Zophiel reported. Michael made a face.

“A mall?”

Sure, there were more kids there than anywhere else short of _schools_ , but a mall? Really?

“It’s December, Michael. He’s sitting in ‘Holiday Corner’, glamouring adults into seeing him as Santa Clause,” Zophiel explained, and Michael’s face smoothed in horrified understanding.

“Oh, Sweet Heaven’s _Gate_ ,” he breathed, and Zophiel nodded. Michael set the clipboard down and pressed his hands together, staring down at the list of deals. “Okay,” he said, looking at Zophiel, who stood at attention, waiting for Michael’s orders. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said, and Zophiel stood a little taller.

“Shall I assemble a legion?” he asked, and Michael blinked.

“What? No. Don’t be dramatic. That’s _his_ job,” Michael replied with a dismissive cut of his hand. Zophiel’s deflation was slight and barely noticeable. “No – no military action. We need information. And we need to gather that information quietly. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to go down there—”

“ _Me?!_ ”

“—and keep an eye on him. _Yes_ , you. You’re the one who brought me the information, and the less the Host knows about Satan making deals with _children_ , the better. Raphael and Gabriel have been bored for eons – you think they wouldn’t leap at a chance for reckless violence? I, for one, do not want the paperwork that comes with them razing an entire shopping mall of God’s work to the ground,” Michael said.

Zophiel shuddered, and nodded. They probably wouldn’t stop at the mall.

“I accept this mission,” he said, and Michael bit back a sigh.

“Just...go down there – _quietly_ – and make sure he’s not trying to harvest the souls of children who don’t even know who they _are_ yet,” Michael told him, and Zophiel nodded before teleporting away. Michael heaved a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair, massaging his forehead. 

**

Lucifer smiled at passersby as he made his way from the check in desk to ‘Holiday Corner’. Robert had seemed less stressed about the whole ‘Satan’ thing than he had the previous day, but Lucifer had chalked it up to that thing that humans do when their brains decide that trying to make sense of a thing was harmful to it and just glazed over reality with something that was benign and made sense. After all, the _real_ Satan would never just show up at a shopping mall and demand that management let him Deal with _children_ all day.

Surely not.

Lucifer inclined his head to a couple of teenagers who were eying him suspiciously and turned the corner towards his temporary kingdom.

And stopped.

There was a man, standing beside his throne, dressed in the red and white stockings and green tunic of the Christmas Elf.

Except that it wasn’t a man, and it was staring straight at him, unaffected by his glamour and frowning with imperious disapproval. Something dark shifted in Lucifer’s stomach as he resumed his course, but more slowly, giving himself time to assess this development.

Eventually he stood face to face with an Angel of The Lord, and they regarded each other.

“So,” he said after a moment, his voice dry and flat. “Which of my numerous relations are you?” he asked. The ‘elf’ stiffened slightly at the assumption of familial connection.

“I am Zophiel,” he said, and Lucifer huffed, a wry smirk pulling his lips at an odd angle.

“The _spy_ ,” he scoffed, watching the other’s cheeks darken. “And you’re here because?”

“You’re making Deals with children,” the angel hissed. Lucifer nodded slowly.

Ah, yes, that.

He’d forgotten that Heaven would be alerted to the zeal with which his productivity had increased.

Oh well.

“Aw, is Michael getting his metaphysical panties twisted over this?” Lucifer asked, pouting. Zophiel sneered, but Lucifer straightened and waved dismissively. “He needn’t bother. I’m not dealing for souls,” he said. Zophiel hesitated.

“You always Deal for souls,” he blurted, seemingly offended by the notion of Lucifer Dealing for anything else. Lucifer snorted and settled himself into his throne as the parents and children began to line up.

“I deal for _sinners’_ souls,” the Prince of Darkness clarified. “Now be a good elf and let the children come sit on Satan’s knee,” he ordered.

**

“Peace on Earth and Goodwill towards men,” said the child, and Satan sighed, snapping his fingers.

The world froze, and he turned to glare sourly at the ‘elf’, who tried and failed not to look smug.

“What are you doing?” Lucifer demanded.

“I am saving Humanity’s children from your influence,” Zophiel replied, chin raised defiantly. Lucifer tilted his head.

“You are suppressing their free will to force them to ask for nonsense instead of their true Christmas wishes,” he said, and Zophiel’s cheek twitched, but he just sniffed and folded his arms. “The only thing you are going to accomplish is sad children at Christmas,” he snapped with a frown.

“You’re one to talk about sad children at Christmas,” Zophiel sneered, and Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think Heaven is _aware_ of just how badly things are going to go in the next few years, thanks to you? And your oh-so-precious _Deal_ with that arrogant, delusional proto-demon?” he hissed.

Lucifer stared at him.  There was a charged moment of silence, and Zophiel tried not to swallow at the rage he saw in The First Angel’s eyes. After a moment, Lucifer tilted his head, his eyes singularly focused.

“Have you ever wondered—” he said, his lips pulled into a smile that held no semblance of amiability. “—why human children are more clearly able to perceive me and my demons whilst your oh-so-precious ‘aura’ remain invisible to their innocent eyes?” he asked. The smile grew into a grin as the angel’s face soured. “Perhaps it has something to do with the pervasiveness of my influence compared to yours. Children, you see, are far more ready to believe that _monsters_ exist than they are to believe in ‘angels’.” He fluttered his hands in a mockery of wings and drank in the angel’s sneer. “Possibly because Father’s ‘non-interference’ policy means that humans must rely only their own, flimsy and easily-muddled moral compasses – which fail them more often than not – and children are more perceptive to the failings of the world than most entities give them credit for. They cry out for help, for relief, for deliverance.”

His grin lost all the false cheer and became a baring of teeth, a threatening display.

“If they knew how little those cries meant to the ears of Heaven, I wonder _just how fast_ they would turn their attention to a more receptive audience,” he said, arching a single eyebrow.

Zophiel bristled.

“That is not your place,” the angel hissed. Satan hummed.

“Not yours, either, it would seem,” he replied, watching Zophiel brim with impotent rage. “Now, you will stop interfering with my business, or I will make absolutely certain that every child who sits on my knee knows exactly who is able and willing to make things happen for them—” He ran a gentle hand over the hair of the frozen, unaware child sitting on his leg before looking pointedly back at Zophiel. “—and who is _not_.”

Zophiel gritted his teeth, staring at the Lord of Hell. His fingers itched for his lance, rage locked tightly in his chest, and for a moment the air was charged with lightning and potential death.

His eyes fell upon the child sitting on Lucifer’s knee, one hand shoved into his mouth, eyes wide and wet and looking at Lucifer with awe. Zophiel took a breath and glared at Lucifer, whose lips twitched into a smile with no warmth.

“Good then,” he said, before raising his hand and snapping his fingers.

**

Troy didn’t want to sit on Santa’s lap.

First of all, there wasn’t a Santa Claus.

Secondly, if there _was_ a Santa Claus, it wouldn’t be this guy, because

Thirdly, that was a _literal demon_.

His dad didn’t seem to have noticed, but he had, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

He’d already tried to leave the line twice. His dad had scolded him for ‘wandering off’ and ordered him to ‘pay attention’. He knew he couldn’t try again without his dad taking away his cube.

He _needed_ his cube.

He clicked the wheel and spun the dial and tried to let the pattern of his fingers sooth the worst of his anxiety.

Click, spin, spin. Click, click, spin.

“Next, please,” said the elf.

“C’mon, kiddo, that’s you,” his dad said, and Troy bit his lip, eyes on the lush red carpet beneath his feet as he shuffled forward.

The elf didn’t pick him up the way he’d picked up other kids to put them on Not-Santa’s lap, which made him feel a little better, but his dad huffed in that way that he did when his computer was slow or when Troy wouldn’t look at him. He felt his dad’s hands on his waist.

“That won’t be necessary,” a silky voice said, and Troy’s dad hesitated.

“He wants to sit on Santa’s lap,” his dad said. The silky voice chuckled.

“I assure you: he does _not_ ,” it insisted.

Troy bit his lip again and hunched his shoulders, but after a moment of silence, his dad just let go of him and went to stand by the exit. Troy glanced towards, but not directly at, the demon sitting in Santa’s chair and shuffled his feet, clicking and spinning and clicking and spinning.

“Your father does not appear to understand that you process the world differently than he expects you to,” the voice said, and Troy frowned.

His dad knew what autism was. He read books. He read news articles.

The voice huffed.

“Yes, it’s clear that he _knows_ , but knowing is so rarely accompanied by understanding,” the voice replied.

To.

His.

Thoughts.

Troy shifted his feet and looked towards his father, spinning and clicking and chewing on his lip.

“Your discomfort is unnecessary,” the voice told him, matter-of-factly. “I do not lie, and I do not intend you harm,” it added.

Troy paused. Considered. Clicked. Spun. He frowned, but shuffled in place and said nothing and went nowhere.

“What would you like for Christmas, Troy Kleiman?”

A new Cube. Troy looked down at his white and green plastic cube and frowned. He’d had this one for a year and a half, he used it constantly and the bits he used were starting to wear. Sometimes the clicker didn’t click because whatever made the click had something stuck in it that he couldn’t get out, and sometimes the spinner stuck because he thought there was a grain of sand in there or something. He’d tried to get his dad to look at it, but his dad just told him that he didn’t have time to play with Troy’s cube. Troy frowned. He liked his cube.

“It _is_ a fantastic cube,” the voice said. Troy shrugged, but yes. Yes, it was. “Normally I conclude this sort of bargain with a handshake, but perhaps if you just nod your head once to agree that in exchange for a new fidget cube of similar but superior design, you will continue to do your best until Christmas,” the voice said.

Troy hunched his shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets at the mention of a handshake, but considered the rest of the man’s words before lifting his chin once and then dropping it towards his chest. His heart gave a nervous flutter, but the man hummed.

“Excellent. And a merry Christmas to you, Troy Kleiman. You may leave, if you wish,” the voice said.

Troy left.

**

Zophiel watched Lucifer smile fondly at the retreating child and narrowed his eyes, but could think of nothing about that interaction to condemn. He turned to the next child in line.

**

“I want my own room.”  
“For privacy?”  
“For peace and _quiet_.”

**

“I really would like my parents to get off my back about school.”

** 

“Can I have a dollhouse?"  
“Any particular kind?”  
“I just want it to be big and have lots of traps for the barbies to die in.”

**

“Can you make television writers less phobic?”

**

 “My sister wants a doll that looks like her.”  
“And what do _you_ want?”  
“For my sister to have a doll that looks like her.”

**

“Can you make it so I don’t have to fight my thoughts in order to be productive?”

**

“Can you make my parents understand that I’m gay as fuck?”

**

“Can you make every Nazi’s head explode?”  
“I’m afraid, my dear, that this goes quite beyond the simple exchange of good behavior.”  
“I got a soul, you want it?”  
“...Oh, I like _you_. Come see me when you’re thirty, and I’ll see what I can do.”

**

“I want a puppy for Christmas.”

Satan looked down at the small bundle of child that had been placed ever so gently and carefully on his lap, and then turned his eyes to the parents hovering at the exit.

“A puppy?” he asked, and the little girl nodded behind her surgical mask.

“Mommy and daddy say I won’t get one because dogs carry diseases, but you’re Santa, right? So, you can get me one that won’t, right?” she asked. He looked down at her. He could see her illness. Could see its origin – tragic happenstance and a dirty needle on a beach.

“Is there anything else that you want?” he asked, unable to directly suggest. She seemed to consider the question, and he held his breath, but she shrugged and shook her head.

“No. Just a puppy,” she said, with bright, hopeful eyes that broke his heart. “Oh!” she said, as though she’d just remembered, and he arched his eyebrows. “Can he have spots?” she asked him.

“Of course he can,” Lucifer promised, shaking her mitten swaddled hand. “Elizabeth Denise Trower, we have an accord,” he said, and she giggled. He nodded to her parents, who came with surgically gloved hands and worry in their hearts to take their daughter home, away from the thousands of diseases she was in danger of catching.

“You couldn’t have suggested it,” Zophiel said, his voice low and gentle. Lucifer sighed.

“I know,” he replied.

“It would have gone against—”

“I _know_ ,” Lucifer snapped bitterly, before rubbing his eyes and composing himself. “Next child, please.”

**

The boy was older – not too old to visit a mall Santa, according to the ‘rules’ – but older than the children around him. And he was clearly uncomfortable. Lucifer and Zophiel had been observing the indecision that carried him all the way to the front of the line, where he would finally have to make a decision about whether or not he was actually going to ask Santa for something for Christmas.

His clothes were serviceable, but not new, and there were signs of careful repair that spoke of previous owners. Lucifer looked at Zophiel, a silent warning against any interference. Lucifer was curious as to what this boy wanted so badly that he would risk the ridicule of his peers and the disapproving looks of parents who thought he was too old for this sort of ‘make-believe’.

“Right this way,” Zophiel said, gesturing to Lucifer, who watched the boy with curious and expectant eyes. The boy stared at him, and his face twitched before his shoulders lowered. He mumbled something and turned towards the exit.

“Zachariah Brookes,” Lucifer said, halting him in his tracks. Wide eyes found his, and he met them with a gentle but unmistakable command. “You have come to speak with me,” he said. There was a moment of silence, and then the boy shrugged, but nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. Lucifer gestured to his knee. The boy looked at it and made a face. “No thanks,” he said. Lucifer huffed.

“Sit, Zachariah. It’s tradition,” he insisted. The boy ran a hand over his face, but only glanced at the line of waiting kids and then walked over and perched himself awkwardly on Lucifer’s knee.

“I’m too big to be sittin’ in a grown dude’s lap, man,” he said, and Lucifer waved a dismissive hand.

“Nonsense,” he replied, before assessing his petitioner. “Now, it’s Christmas, and you want something, and that is precisely why we are both here, in this moment,” he said. Zachariah stared at him, and then looked away, setting his jaw. Lucifer gave a soft noise of understanding. “Ah, you think I’m going to _judge_ you,” he said. Zachariah glared at him. Lucifer snorted. “Tell me, Zachariah, have you killed anyone?” he asked. The boy blinked.

“What? No,” he replied.

“Stolen more than food, told a lie that harmed more than someone’s feelings, raped?”

“ _No!_ What the _fuck?_ ”

“Then rest assured, my judgment is not upon _you_. Also, watch your language; there are children,” Lucifer told him, his admonishment a mild afterthought. Behind Zachariah, the elf was sighing, but the teenager only stared some more, trying to process what he was being presented with. Eventually, the tension left his shoulders and he looked down at his hands.

“I wanna be adopted,” he said, before shrugging one shoulder. “But I’m sixteen. Parents don’t want a grown kid,” he added. Lucifer nodded. “One of the smalls from my center said you promised to find him parents for Christmas,” he started before trailing off.

“And you thought, ‘if him, why not me?’” Lucifer guessed. Zachariah tensed a little at whatever it was he was reading into Lucifer’s words, but the Prince of Darkness only hummed. “I understand your center is run by a harried young woman named Tanya Dalton,” he said. Zachariah looked at him.

“Yeah?” he replied.

“She is going to need help this season. It’s going to be very busy for her. I want you to become her assistant. Do we have an accord?” he asked.

“I help Tanya, and you get me adopted?” Zachariah clarified. Lucifer nodded. The boy looked skeptical but shrugged. What did he have to lose? “Alright, deal,” he said, and shook Lucifer’s hand. Lucifer beamed at him.

“I suggest you begin immediately,” he said.

**

“What are you planning?” Zophiel demanded, time paused. Lucifer gazed blandly at him.

“Why, I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he replied, brushing some lint off his knee.

**

Zophiel watched every day as Lucifer made more and more deals with children, Christmas drawing ever nearer. By the time Christmas day was less than a week off, the Prince of Darkness had made over twenty thousand deals.

More than two-thirds of these deals were thankfully benign. Toys, mostly. Pets. Financial security.

One had asked for stock options while a tired, exasperated mother massaged her forehead on the sidelines. Lucifer had merely asked which company the young lady wanted her stock options to originate from, deeply amused and delighted with this small child’s thoughtful preparation for the future.

Others were harder, but with his legion of demons and devils, not impossible to pull off.

Even so, there were requests that had Zophiel worried.

The young woman who wanted either her body to match her gender identity or her parents’ acceptance, for example.

One had asked for superpowers.

One had asked Satan to resurrect his Grandmother, because she’d been the only family member who really loved him. Given that the Grandmother in question resided peacefully in Heaven, Zophiel questioned Lucifer’s acquiescence in that instance.

Still, he returned to Heaven every evening, filed his report directly with Michael, who looked less and less concerned with every debriefing. Zophiel, on the other hand, was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely Lucifer was only waiting for the moment when Heaven dropped the issue. When Heaven became convinced that Lucifer merely desired to make miracles happen for the children of Seattle.

But Zophiel was unconvinced.

Zophiel would be vigilant.

**

Lucifer returned to Hell to find Patrice already handing out assignments to the various denizens of his domain, and he waited, stretching his arms over his head despite lacking the tension that humans accumulated in their muscles due to stress.

“This is the busiest season we’ve had since Sodom and Gomorrah,” Patrice reported once the last scroll had been assigned. Lucifer hummed with a smile. “I have the ones you wanted me to set aside right here,” they added, holding out a smaller sheaf of parchment. He took them with a grateful nod.

“Yes, I want to handle these personally,” he said. Patrice sighed.

“This would damage your image as a ruthless monster if we had a PR department,” they said, and Satan chuckled.

“Thank god for a lack of public relations,” he replied. He pressed a loving but distracted kiss his demonic assistant/lover’s cheek and then looked back at his Deals. “I’ll be late. Don’t wait up,” he said. Patrice shook their head.

“Don’t be up _too_ late,” they said, but Lucifer was already wandering away and they rolled their eyes before getting back to work.

**

“A cube.”

“Yes.”

“…a torture cube?”

“No.”

**

“The girl’s room doesn’t support a doll’s mansion of this size. Perhaps make the interface smaller, and add dimensional facets for her to explore.”

“And the traps?”

“Many, varied, but not to hurt _her_ , you understand.”

“It will be done.”

**

“The complexities of what you’re asking—”

“I’m aware. It isn’t just the manipulation of bodily matter, but the alteration of memory and experience.”

“It breaks a tenet.”

“The acceptance is off the table. If her parents are going to accept her, they will.”

“Even the memory alteration...”

Lucifer sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“Without the memory alteration, she’s simply someone who has broken into their house and is ‘pretending to be their son’,” he explained. The creature before him, bulbous and rotten with too many arms of skin and bone, spread its many hands helplessly.

“The matter alteration is nothing. I have sculpted more complex organisms than a simple human child. Even the transfer of consciousness between that which she already possesses and that which she desires is not difficult,” it told him, before letting out a raspy sigh. “But to alter the memories of the living is in direct violation of the tenets of Hell, laid down by the Archangel of Heaven. Free will must not be manipulated or taken. To alter their memories of her physical state would be to deny them the choice to be responsible parents or utterly despicable people,” it said, shaking its neckless head.

Lucifer sneered.

“Oh, yes, the almighty _tenets_ ,” he hissed. “Heaven may twist and tug and pull the strings of humanity all it wishes, but _God Forbid_ —” He snarled and slammed his fist on the table, before sucking in a breath. The Stitcher moved slightly away and watched Lucifer carefully as he closed his eyes, clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and took a moment before letting out an only slightly calmer breath. “Do what you can, I will see to the rest – somehow – without breaking any of Michael’s precious tenets,” he ordered.

The demon before him bowed.

“Your excellency.”

**

He visited the kennels before retiring to his chambers.

“New pups?” he asked, and the imp in charge grinned at him.

“Oh, yes, my lord,” it replied, before leading him back to where a tired hound was lounging in a twenty-foot enclosure, while fourteen ragged, skinless puppies fought and played, and suckled. Lucifer made a soft sound and stepped into the enclosure, letting the hellhound puppies swarm him and bite at his ankles as he approached the massive hound that had whelped them.

“Grimmsby, my sweet,” he cooed, hugging the dog’s entire face. A raspy, spiked tongue swiped tiredly at him and a tail the size of a tree trunk thwapped the ground twice, causing a small tremor. “What adorable terrors you’ve given me,” he praised. Another quake-causing tail thump.

He spent a moment petting his favorite hellhound before turning to the mass of puppies, who – after their initial investigation – were ignoring him. He observed them all for a moment, and then waved his hand. Immediately the puppies settled, turning to face him with the attentiveness of a kindergarten class. He considered them all carefully before approaching one and kneeling before it.

Like all hellhounds, it had no skin. It was muscle, and sinew, and hellfire and ash. But its black eyes held a loyalty no dog on Earth could touch, and the soot and scratches on its frame resembled spots more readily than any of its siblings, and he nodded.

“You’ll do,” he said, scooping it up under one arm.

He took a step, out of the kennel – out of his domain – into a small, darkened bedroom, lit with a soft blue glow. The hum of an air purifier filled the space, and he carried the puppy to a small bed, sitting on the side of it. The young human sleeping there didn’t stir. The puppy in his arms began to squirm, nose twitching.

“You see this human?” Lucifer said quietly, and the puppy made a grumbling, whining acknowledgment. “You are bound to this human,” he said. Instantly the puppy quieted, and a violet fire lit its eyes. Lucifer set the puppy on the bed, and watched it squirm closer to the sleeping human, snuffling the child’s face. “You are to protect her from harm. Disease and Illness are her enemies, and you will defend her against all forms of attack by them,” he ordered. The puppy grunted assent. “Her parents are not to see you,” Lucifer added. Another grunt.

They sat there for several silent minutes before Lucifer set his hand on the puppy’s back and returned them both to the Kennels of Hell. The imp awaited them.

“See that this pup is very thoroughly trained for its task,” he ordered, and the imp bowed.

“Yes, your Darkness.”

**

The last week before Christmas was a logistical nightmare for Patrice.

Between organizing the Legion, accepting assignment reports and then correcting inappropriate solutions to said assignments, Patrice had barely slept.

The last few days were going to take the most toll, and Christmas Eve was going to be the _worst._ At least the hours would be shorter, but Patrice was still going to have to assign teams of demons and imps and other beings to fulfilling the Deals.

And the Deals would have to be fulfilled. To leave a Deal unfulfilled would be in violation of one of the tenets. Patrice had never allowed a tenet to be violated before, and they were certainly not about to let one be violated now.

Patrice looked at the clock. They had at least twenty minutes before Lucifer started his shift.

Plenty of time.

**

Michael lifted his head at the sound of a chime that echoed through the very firmament of Heaven and carried his name.

He was being summoned?

With a frown he rose from his desk, stepped forward, and found himself in a café on Earth.

Sitting at the table in front of him was Lucifer’s Secretary. Michael stared. Patrice gestured to the empty seat.

“We have business to discuss,” they said. Michael frowned and sat.

**

“Guilt.”

“Yes.”

“ _Him_.”

Patrice sighed.

“Endlessly annoying to me, this alternate personality you’ve developed for your brother. He is charged with the punishment of the wicked, and yet you paint him as this amoral seductor of the innocent. He does his job. He ensures that those souls who deserve eternal torment do not get into Heaven on a _technicality of divine forgiveness,_ ” Patrice hissed, and Michael rolled his eyes. “That those individuals demand things that harm other people in exchange for their blackened souls is _not his fault_ , and I am tired of—”

“You’re right,” Michael said.

“—you self-righteous pigeons judging him for a job to which _you assigned him!_ And another thing,” Patrice said, leaning forward with a set jaw and fiery cheeks.

“Patrice,” Michael interrupted. Golden eyes narrowed. “You’re right,” he repeated.

They stared at him. He shrugged. They stared some more.

“Of course I am,” they said, leaning back in their chair and sipping their coffee. They sat in silence for a moment and then Michael sighed.

“What do you need from me?”

“Help,” Patrice replied. Michael frowned.

“In what capacity?” he asked.

“The closer we get to Christmas, the less time we have to fulfill the details of the contracts. Some of the Deals he makes require more people than we can afford to assign.”

“You have a legion of millions,” Michael scoffed, and Patrice sighed.

“Yes, millions who are used to the confines of hell, and not the delicate navigations required by the surface,” they countered, and Michael hesitated. “Of the legion, we have maybe ten thousand who are trained to pass without notice among humans, maybe five thousand others who have the ability to avoid all forms of detection, but he has made over twenty-thousand deals, Michael, some of them quite delicate and requiring teams. Our usable legion has not had rest, and they are beginning to buckle under the strain – we need reinforcements,” they said.

Michael sighed.

“You want angels,” he guessed, and Patrice snorted.

“I certainly wasn’t asking for _penguins_ ,” they replied. Michael shook his head.

“You know I can’t do that,” he said, and Patrice arched an eyebrow.

“That a fact?”

“The non-interference—”

“Is bullshit, and you know it, but it’s also beside the point,” Patrice argued. Michael bristled.

“It is _God’s Will_ —”

“If you do not spare the personnel, Lucifer will be in danger of breaking a tenet,” Patrice interrupted, and Michael stared.

“He...Even a _Fallen_ —”

“You think he is infallible? If that were true, we would not be in this position in the first place because he would not have _Fallen_ at all,” Patrice said, before shaking their head. “He is stretched to the point of breaking. He does his best, but he _needs_ help, or the tenets will break. No one knows what will happen if a tenet breaks – no tenet has ever been broken before. I don’t want to find out, do you?” they asked, before lifting their coffee cup and sniffing lightly. “Not to mention the disappointed children, come Christmas morning,” they added, looking pointedly at him over the brim of the cup.

He sighed.

It was _his_ tenet. God had tasked him with setting the rules of Hell’s ruler and Michael had done his best not to hobble his brother, but...

A Deal – once brokered – must be completed.

If a tenet was broken...well.

A tenet had not been broken in the thousands of years since Hell’s consolidation. Michael sighed. If it was broken now, it would be because Michael was too proud to help his brother. He looked at Patrice, who arched an eyebrow.

“I hope he deserves you,” he said, and Patrice gave him a shark’s grin.

“Oh, I assure you, he does,” they replied.

**

Lucifer watched the last of the day’s children totter away with their parents, and then tensed when time stilled. He looked at Zophiel, who was looking at him with equally uneasy confusion, and then stood when the space was suddenly filled with a garrison of angels. They were not dressed for battle, but that did little to still the hammering of his heart as Michael – Archangel of the Heavens, Secondborn of God – stepped forth.

“Lucifer,” he greeted, and Lucifer clenched his fists, hardening his spine.

“Michael,” he returned, watching his brother step closer.

“I am informed by your very charming secretary that you require aid in the completion of your duties here on Earth,” Michael said. Lucifer blinked and Michael sighed, spreading his hands. “And I am here to offer you our assistance.”

Lucifer watched as the hundred angels present dropped to one knee and swallowed hard. Beside him, Zophiel made a choking sound and sputtered, but at a look from Michael, he only sucked in a breath, blinked repeatedly and then very slowly and reluctantly fell to one knee as well. Michael looked back at Lucifer.

“Tell me what you need, brother.”

**

Patrice was running a bath when Lucifer appeared, swept the demonic secretary into his arms, and spun them around before splashing them both into the water with a joyous laugh.

Later, their sopping wet clothes making a puddle the didn’t care about on the tiled floor, Lucifer held Patrice close, tracing idle patterns on their skin as the two of them relaxed.

“How do you feel about children?”

**

The demons and the angels worked in shifts over the next four days, and Lucifer lost track of all the details that were hammered out. Michael’s last-minute assistance lifted several heavy burdens from his shoulders.

“This Deal was not within your power to make – what were you going to do if Patrice hadn’t come to browbeat me into helping you?” Michael asked, and Lucifer shrugged.

“I likely would have begged,” he replied. Michael gaped, and then sighed.

“I’ll see to it this is handled by my best angel,” he said.

“Thank you.”

**

December 24th, 11:59 PM.

Heaven and Hell held their breath, counting the heavy seconds.

Midnight fell.

The world froze.

Heaven and Hell descended upon Seattle.

**

“We could just kill him,” muttered the claw-footed frog demon assigned to Hunter Landon, and Raziel grunted.

“I don’t disagree, filth, but that is not in the contract,” she growled, reaching forward to touch the man’s forehead as the demon went to dispose of every drop of alcohol in the house.

“It’s not _not_ in the contract,” he muttered, recalling every instance where he’d had to make the child invisible to his own father’s eyes. He glanced at Raziel, but the angel was engaged with relieving the father of his addiction and impressing upon him the importance of doing right by his son, so she didn’t see when he darted forward and deposited Hunter’s other gift under the tree before seeing to the alcohol.

**

“Wake up,” Patrice ordered, and the man in whose bedroom they stood started upright, staring at them. They were holding up one of his teaching awards.

“Wh-who are—What’re you—”

“We’re going to have a _chat_ , you and I,” Patrice said, stepping forward with a grin as their golden eyes began to glow.

**

“Hurry up, disgusting creature,” Gabriel hissed, and The Stitcher ran a long, forked tongue over its jagged, lipless teeth.

“I wonder if His Excellency would let me pluck the self-righteous feathers from your arrogant back,” it mused aloud in its gurgling rasp as it waddled into the room of Ellie Winters. Gabriel bristled, but The Stitcher ignored him, hefting the sack he’d brought and pulling back the covers of the child they’d come for.

With its many arms, it pulled from the sack the body of a girl who looked almost identical to the child. It laid the body beside the original and rubbed its hands together.

“You attend the parents, bird. This will take but a moment,” it said, and Gabriel shuddered, leaving the room with a grumble about insects.

**

“Sit. Stay.”

“Rrrrof!”

**

Lucifer knocked on the door, leaning against the frame as he waited.

It opened to reveal a sleep-disheveled young man who wiped his eyes and stared in confusion at the man who was standing outside his bedroom door.

“Merry Christmas, Zachariah,” Lucifer said. Zachariah blinked.

“What are you doin’ here, man? It’s midnight, how’d you get in?” he asked. Lucifer smirked.

“I think you’ll find the number of places to which I _don’t_ have access is quite small,” he replied. The boy didn’t exactly look impressed, peering down the darkened hallway as if the caretakers were going to be storming the halls any second.

“What are you doin’ here?” he asked again, and Lucifer tilted his head.

“It’s Christmas,” he replied. “And we have a Deal,” he added. Zachariah blinked at him.

“You found me parents?” he asked. The hope in his voice was a sweet knife. Lucifer nodded with a small smile.

“I believe so. I’ve spoken to your Ms. Dalton. She’s spoken very highly of your dedication to helping her through such an unexpectedly busy season. You’ve quite the administrative mindset,” he said. Zachariah shrugged, and Lucifer smiled again before producing a folded-up bundle of papers. Zachariah swallowed hard at the sight of them. “All you need to do is sign these papers, and you will be officially adopted,” he said.

Zachariah hesitated.

“I...I don’t get to meet them first?” he asked. Lucifer straightened.

“Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me. You would, of course, want to see where you’d be living to ensure that you would be happy there,” he said with a small, self-deprecative laugh. He held out his hand. Zachariah looked at it, and then at him, before reaching out and taking it.

The door swung gently shut on an empty hallway.

**

Presents delivered, bargains upheld, tenets intact, the legions of Heaven and Hell retreated back to their respective domains. Time released the world, which quietly resumed its steady, inevitable march into the future.

Troy woke to the smell of cocoa and pie, and made his bed and changed into his Christmas clothes and put his pajamas in the laundry bag before shuffling sleepily down the steps in his Garfield slippers. The cocoa was good. The pie was better. His dad ruffled his hair.

His dad got books. Troy blinked and frowned and wondered who had got his dad books.

He got a new Cube, and his mouth tugged back into a smile as he ran his fingers over the smooth new surface. It was sleek, and black with dark red buttons, and the click was so satisfying, and the spin was so soothing. Tension he’d only been vaguely aware of in his shoulders was released and he sighed, looking happily down at his present.

Good Christmas.

**

Hunter was confused, but didn’t want to question what was happening.

His father hadn’t yelled at him all morning.

His father had barely raised his voice since waking him for presents.

His dad was having coffee with no alcohol in it.

Hunter didn’t know what to _do_ with that except not look a gift horse in the mouth, and he ripped the paper off his next present, doing his best not to make too much noise or take too long crumpling it into a ball.

It was a small, leather bound book.

The cover was black, and embossed with a single symbol – a radiating star. Inside, the text was not in English, and the sight of the glyphs made his pulse race for reasons he didn’t quite understand. He frowned, closing it and flipping it over in search of a clue as to its origin or purpose, but there was nothing, and he quickly forced his face into a grateful smile as he looked at his dad.

“Thanks, dad!” he said. His father looked at the book with something like confusion and unease before Hunter watched him force a smile onto his own face.

“Oh, yeah. You’re welcome, kiddo,” he said. “Say, I was thinking, later – tomorrow maybe ‘cause I don’t think anything’s open right now – but tomorrow we might go to that game store and get you a new console. Would you like that?” he asked. There was a thread of nervousness in his voice that Hunter didn’t know how to process.

“I’d love to, dad!” he replied, because like hell he was going to turn that down.

He was going to ride his dad’s new attitude till it reached the station.

**

Ellie wept tears of hysterical joy as she stared at herself in the mirror, running her hands through her hair, over her body, over her face. Her heart hammered elation against her chest and she muffled her screams with both hands, still staring at a her that was the right shape, the right size, the right everything -finally. _Finally._ God bless that man, whatever he did, however he did it. She didn’t even want to know, it didn’t matter, because she was finally what she was always meant to be.

Thank God

Thank _Santa._

“Ellie, honey, are you alright?” came her mom’s voice, and her voice caught in her throat as she turned and stared at the bathroom door. She yanked it open, staring at her mother, who every day since the announcement had foregone nicknames and _insisted_ on calling her Elliot. Her mom, who was staring at her now with concern, and love, and not the slightest recognition that there was anything different about her. “Ellie, have you been crying? Are you alright?” her mom asked, reaching out to touch her face and wipe away her tears.

Ellie pitched forward into her mom’s arms and cried some more.

**

“Puppy!!” screeched Elizabeth, making grabby hands at the skinless horror that was wagging its ass and panting before her. It pounced on her with a yap and she shrieked with joy, petting it without regard for the fact that it had no fur.

“Aw, what an adorable stuffed toy,” her mother said, smiling.

Elizabeth made a noise of confusion and looked at the puppy, who blinked flaming violet eyes at her and licked the side of her face.

**

Katrina unwrapped another present and sighed, staring at it.

It’s not that she didn’t want the toys. She wanted the toys.

“Katie, honey, are you okay? Don’t you like your present?” her mother asked. She summoned up a smile for her mom.

“Can we build it when we’re done with presents?” she asked, holding up the K’nex rollercoaster. Her mom smiled, satisfied with Katrina’s investment in the presents.

“Of course, baby. Your dad cleared out a space in the basement just for that,” she said, and Katrina nodded with another smile, and the presents continued to be unwrapped.

And Katrina counted the hours until she would have to go back to school.

She got more K’nex, and a doll, and some pajamas, and a video game. Her grandma had gotten her a little girl’s make up kit. Her mom had made a noise about age appropriate gifts and Katrina had given it up with no fuss at all. There were chocolates in her stocking, along with some carrots that made Katrina blink. Her mom and dad had tried to have a quiet argument about which of them had put _carrots_ in her stocking, in which they both denied having done it. Katrina’s mom had taken the carrots and put them in the fridge.

Katie and her dad were in the middle of assembling the roller coaster when the doorbell rang. They all went to the door, confused about who could possibly be visiting them on Christmas day without calling first.

It was a demon.

He was wearing a postal service uniform.

Katie stared at him, and he winked at her, but her parents apparently didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Of course, they had raved about the portrait of ‘Santa’ that they’d gotten, and how well painted it was, but Katrina had studied the painting for a long time, and concluded that what she was seeing and what her parents were seeing were two very different things.

In the picture, she was sitting on the knee of a very finely dressed, ethnically ambiguous man with massive sprawling black wings, flowing blond hair, and a tie with a pitchfork on it.

If _that_ was Santa, then she was the Duke of Buckingham.

The demon handed her parents a letter that they had to sign for, and then wished them a Merry Christmas and walked off with a whistle.

“I didn’t know the postal service delivered on Christmas,” her dad said. Her mother made a noise of agreement as she opened the letter, scanning over it. Whatever she read made her eyebrows shoot up, and she shared a look with Katrina’s dad, who shrugged. “Well, kiddo, looks like you get to stay home another week with your mom and dad,” he said.

“Why?” Katie asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“One of your teachers just retired, and they need time to find a replacement,” her mom said.

Katie stared.

Her ears buzzed, her skin was hot, and her heart was beating a mile a minute.

She jumped up and snatched the letter, ignoring her parents’ protests. Her dad reached to take the letter back, but her mom stopped him, and then shepherded him off to the kitchen – ostensibly for food. Katie watched them go and then looked down at the letter.

It was a personalized apology letter from her social studies teacher to each of the children in his class, apologizing for his atrocious behavior and his inability to adequately teach them the subject he had been assigned.

A smile planted itself on her face and she whooped out loud before running around the living room. After a moment, she stopped and stared up at the portrait of ‘Santa’ that was hanging on the wall. She started to laugh.

She kept laughing.

“Mama!” she said, running into the kitchen.

“What is it, baby?” her mom asked, smiling with confusion.

“I need to write a thank you letter. Will you help me?” she asked.

“Of course, baby.”

They had just sat down to start writing it when the doorbell rang again.

“What in the name of—” her mother tsked with annoyance as they all once more trooped to the front door and answered it.

“Oh, my god,” her father said, but Katie gave a delighted gasp and raced to the kitchen, grabbing the carrots from her stocking out of the vegetable crisper and pushing out from between her parents.

The pony was black with white stockings and black hooves, and a single white star on its forehead. Its mane and tail were made of fire. It had a bridle and a saddle, and it snuffled the carrots out of Katie’s hands in seconds.

“What in _God’s name_ ,” her mother started, but the pony gave a dissenting whicker and tossed its head. Katie giggled and clapped her hands, reaching for the saddle. “Oh my lord, Katie,” her mother cautioned, but Katie looked at her with wide, happy brown eyes.

“It’s from Santa!” she told them, pulling the tag off the saddle and handing it to them.

They stared at it. They stared at the horse.

Katie wondered if they were seeing a normal horse or the real one, and decided it didn’t matter.

“I’m gonna name him Sweet Pea,” she announced with a grin.

**

The world turned.

Christmas passed.

On the boundary between Heaven and Hell, the small corner of the world was watched in satisfied silence.

“This was nice,” Michael said, and then kicked himself for the inadequacy of the sentiment as Lucifer smirked at him. “I...” he floundered for a moment before scratching the back of his head. “I’ve…missed you,” he said. Lucifer huffed.

“Well, perhaps I’ll do this again next year and we can see each other then instead of waiting another several millennia,” he said. Michael scoffed, but the idea wasn’t unappealing.

“I believe my garrison would riot,” he muttered, and Lucifer chuckled. Michael looked around.

Stalling. He was stalling.

“We should have dinner,” he blurted, making Lucifer arch his eyebrows. “Isn’t...that what humans do? With estranged relatives?”

“Can you cook? Cause he can’t cook,” said a voice that made Michael blink. Lucifer grunted and stepped aside to reveal a young man in newer clothes, with a bright look in his eyes. “He lives in a barbecue, but he can’t cook. Neither can Patrice. They order out. It’s criminal. Smells like ribs and charcoal down there,” said the boy.

“Who are you? Who is this?” Michael asked, looking at Lucifer, who smiled. The boy shared a glance with him, and he nodded. The boy stepped forward, extending a hand that Michael surrendered his to without thought.

“I’m Zack. Zachariah Morningstar.”

**Author's Note:**

> The original version of this can be read here: http://avengemeeee.tumblr.com/post/153869376237/writing-prompt-s-due-to-a-typo-your-local
> 
> But hopefully this one is a little more complete than that one.   
> Also I intend to add about a dozen epilogues as time and capitalism allow


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